


Hands

by IdleLeaves



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 13:25:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2069925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdleLeaves/pseuds/IdleLeaves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fourth Age, Valinor. Penmanship, confessions, and lack of restraint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elvenwanderer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elvenwanderer/gifts).



Erestor wakes to waves and sea-birds. He slides out from under the blanket – and Fingon's arm draped over his waist – and wraps a robe around himself on his way to the balcony. Their visitors' cottage faces the sea; ahead of him, the sun hovers just above the horizon, its new-day glow softened by cloud. To the north, rocky beaches give way to smooth sand, and further, where the land curves sharply into the sea, the pearl gates of Alqualondë are tinted gold in the morning light.

As the sun rises, so does the sea-wind, sharp with the tang of salt. Erestor lingers, hands spread along the balcony rail, until Fingon emerges from the bedroom, yawning. They'd spent the previous evening apart, with different sets of acquaintances; Erestor had been soundly asleep by the time Fingon had returned, and judging from his bleary-eyed expression it had been a very late return. Fingon says nothing by way of greeting, but lays his hand on the back of Erestor's neck for a moment before taking a seat – rather ungracefully – on the padded bench beside them.

"There are letters for you, inside," says Erestor. "Delivered last evening – after you left."

"I could forget to answer them until we've travelled back," Fingon says. There's still more than a fortnight until their oceanside sojourn is meant to end, and days of roads and mountain passes, after that, before reaching home. "But, no," Fingon continues with a sigh. "Of course not. I'm sure they're all terribly important and require my immediate and undivided attention." The amusement in Fingon's voice might easily be mistaken for annoyance – and indeed had been, by Erestor, on more than one occasion in the not-so-distant past. The inflection has since become familiar, and goes unquestioned.

"They find you everywhere, don't they?"

"Indeed they do," Fingon says, with another yawn. Then, "I don't suppose--"

"Not a chance," Erestor says, cutting him off with a smile. "You can respond in your own – atrocious, I might add – handwriting."

That prompts a soft laugh from Fingon. "I was just thinking of how to ensure they'd be properly legible."

Erestor turns back to the sea and manages to sound scandalised. "Your words in my handwriting," he says. "Can't have that. People might _talk_."

"They already do talk," says Fingon, rising from the bench to rest his hands on Erestor's shoulders and speak next to his ear, his voice conspiratorially low. "Some of them do very little else. Pity, though," he continues, with his normal cadence, "I seem to recall a younger version of you who would take any number of dictations – from his king, at least – with no complaint." He reaches down and takes Erestor's hands, turning them palms-up. "I believe he was often ink-stained. And always had a quill at the ready."

"Mm-hmm. That's generally what a scribe is supposed to be, yes."

"But if I remember correctly – and I do – you showed a particularly exceptional level of diligence." Fingon's tone is light, teasing. "Near devotion, really. You were committed, conscientious, efficient..."

"... And besotted," Erestor admits, and wonders, momentarily, at how easily long-unvoiced thoughts can become words. Looking at Fingon, he can't see so much as a flicker of surprise in his dark eyes. "You knew," Erestor says – not a question, but a declaration.

"If it makes you feel better," Fingon says, "I doubt anyone else caught on." He raises his eyebrows, and his smile is lopsided and more than a little self-satisfied.

"Oh, don't look so smug," Erestor says, but there's no sting in his words; it's surprisingly easy to speak of, now that its time is long past. "It was a passing infatuation, so don't go off thinking I pined for you all those years."

Fingon's laugh is deep and rich, and he drops onto the bench again, looking up at Erestor. "Pining, yes. Of course. I can imagine how difficult it must have been for you when you arrived, trying to fight the urge to throw yourself at me."

Erestor shakes his head. "Indeed. I had the speech all prepared, even. My former king," he begins, and Fingon snorts at the mockery. "Now that we've met again, on these deathless shores, I feel compelled to admit that, when we were young--"

"Comparatively young," Fingon interrupts.

" _Comparatively_ young," continues Erestor, "I harboured deep and entirely inappropriate affections for--"

"Erestor," Fingon interrupts again, and Erestor trails off mid-sentence. Fingon reaches out his hand; when Erestor takes it, he finds himself pulled down to the bench, legs sprawled awkwardly across Fingon's lap.

"You," Fingon begins, wrapping an arm around Erestor's shoulders, "are far too practical for that kind of rubbish. You were, and you are, no matter how much else might have changed – for both of us, I think." He brushes a strand of hair back from Erestor's face and tucks it behind his ear. A long moment passes, and the look in Fingon's eyes softens. "I hope you don't believe," he starts, then pauses. "I mean, this—" he says, and gestures to the two of them, "It's not—"

This time it's Erestor who interrupts, with just two words. "I know," he says, and follows it with a long kiss.

"Besides," he says, brightly, when they part, "even if I were _impractical_ enough to have been holding some kind of ridiculous candle, I hardly would have had to do anything about it. If you recall correctly – and I know you do – you approached me first."

"Hmm," Fingon says, his brow furrowing in an imitation of contemplation. "Not sure that what I did can really be classified as 'approaching'."

"You were rather forward," Erestor agrees. Fingon's words had failed him then, too – aided, Erestor is sure, by an escape from a too-formal dinner gathering and a walk through a not-so-well-marked garden path. Years at court may have taught Fingon the art of diplomatic conversation, but diplomacy rarely applied to matters of the heart.

Fingon's arm drops from Erestor's shoulders and settles around his waist, instead; Erestor leans into the touch. "At least," Fingon says, "I had the grace to wait until we were alone. I do have some restraint. _Some_ ," he clarifies, at Erestor's exaggerated expression of profound disbelief.

"Precious little," Erestor says. "But I suppose for you that's remarkable."

"Speaking of restraint – or lack thereof," Fingon switches topics without a hitch, "it's still early and we have nowhere to be until well past noon. Explain to me why we're out of bed."

"It's a beautiful day," says Erestor, sweeping one hand toward the sky. "Lovely view. Not too hot, not too cold. Nice breeze. Wouldn't you enjoy just relaxing here and watching this spectacular sunrise?"

"Depends," says Fingon, with a wicked grin, as he loosens the tie on Erestor's robe. "Will you stand naked in front of it?"

Erestor rolls to his feet, straightens his robe, and heads back inside with nary a glance or a word to Fingon.

"... Erestor? Where are you going?" Fingon sounds genuinely confused.

Erestor pauses a moment on the threshold, just long enough to call over his shoulder. "Back to bed."

**Author's Note:**

> For elvenwanderer as part of AinA 2014. This might be out in left field, or maybe not even in the ballpark of what you were hoping for, but I hope you enjoyed it anyhow.
> 
> Thank you to Elleth for beta, and also for listening to my flailing along the way. <3


End file.
